


First Blood

by code_rage



Category: Fire Emblem Echoes: Mou Hitori no Eiyuu Ou | Fire Emblem Echoes: Shadows of Valentia
Genre: Gen, hints of graybin because im weak, mentions of Alm and Lukas, rated for some violence and a lot of blood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-24
Updated: 2017-06-24
Packaged: 2018-11-18 09:22:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11288358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/code_rage/pseuds/code_rage
Summary: First blood is always messy, dramatic. A take on the Ram villagers' first kills.





	First Blood

**Author's Note:**

> This started as vague inspiration from Gray's 4th base conversation where he says, "Maybe the folks I’ve had to kill can forgive me… or maybe not." So I wanted to do some kind of piece on every villager's first kill fresh out of Ram (motivation, immediate emotional impact, etc). Here's hoping I did them some justice... :'D

\--  _ Purpose _ \--

A sword is a delicate thing to wield. It isn’t meant to be swung like a club, nor is it meant to be twirled like a lance. The sword is an art, a skill to be honed and mastered, inasmuch as death and war can be considered an art in the first place. There is meaning behind each motion, intent behind each strike—to disarm, kill, or defend. Discipline and decisiveness guide their wielder’s hand in equal measure to secure a clean and beautiful victory.

This is not how Gray’s first kill goes at all.

Gray’s first victim doesn’t even target him, in fact. He goes for the guy next to him; the one holding a bow. Between his heart dropping into his stomach and the adrenaline humming in his brain, Gray doesn’t think twice about throwing himself between Tobin and the oncoming axe.

First blood is always messy, dramatic. The way the bandit’s blood sprays against his dark skin and tunic as Gray’s sword cuts deep into the joint between neck and shoulder is almost comical, in a way. It leaves the body too easily for the sickening crunch of his hastily swung blade meeting with bone and flesh. His strength failing him and his follow-through ruined, Gray freezes, shaken by the  _ weight _ of a real body on the other end of his weapon, shocked at how easily it gives compared to the wooden posts he and Alm used so often for practice. There’s a soft fragility to it that makes his arms go numb and his bones feel like glass.

Out of the corner of his eye, the edge of the axe’s blade glints in the sunlight. A grim picture flashes through Gray’s mind; an edge like that could slice him or Tobin’s skinny frame like a hot knife through butter. Time seems to stretch into a moment where Gray slowly recognizes the sick knot clenching in his gut as genuine fear.

When the bandit retaliates, Gray easily slips around his clumsy strikes. For a brief, sweet moment, it’s almost like a game—his pulse drums in his ears, pushing the fear so far down he no longer cares that he’s smiling and chuckling as he dances around his foe, making wild swing after wild swing. It might even be fun, if the loser didn’t have the prize of death waiting for him.

But when it’s all over, the bandit impaled on the end of his blade, Gray doesn’t have to see the bandit’s face to know that the life is leaving his eyes. The lazy grin is gone from his lips, and he’s suddenly very aware of the unpleasantly warm and sticky blood smeared across his arms, face, and hands. After what seems like an eternity of tense muscles refusing to budge, Gray releases a shuddering breath he hadn’t realized he was holding in and lets the corpse fall to the ground. 

Funny, he thinks, how the body felt heavier after the soul had left it.

 

\--  _ Freedom _ \--

The first time Kliff encounters death, they meet as enemies. He hides and cries like the helpless, unprepared child he is, clinging to his older friends while the wicked knights threaten to behead them all one by one. They tell him to be quiet, command him to stop crying, but fear grips him like ice and refuses to obey. Their words may as well be falling on deaf ears.

He was never strong like them—always the youngest, the smallest, the one that needed protection. The first one winded during games of Knights and Rogues. The first to collapse during sword training. The first to fall ill when the winter season fell upon the countryside. Mother is quick to point out his shortcomings and quicker still on lecturing how to overcome them.

But magic… magic comes fairly easily to him. His affinity for it is unique in the village, so he devours every schoolbook on magic he can find in the absence of a proper mentor. The first spells he tames himself are not powerful, and controlling them at first is a challenge—the scorch marks on the side of Mycen’s house remind him of that every day. But it’s also a reminder of why he’d decided to cultivate his natural talents in the first place.

On orders from Alm, Kliff hangs back from the middle of the skirmish, still within sight of the Ram village gates. A few paces ahead of him is Lukas, red hair flashing in the midday sun, smartly fending off a wave of bandits with the practiced ease of someone who’d been at this entirely too long for someone his age. It’s hard for Kliff to tell what he’s thinking as his opponents fall like timber around him, leaving barely a scratch on his armor to their name. He doesn’t seem to be giving any of the dead men a second thought. The quick, passionate motions of his lance don’t match his controlled expressions at all. It’s bewitching to watch.

_ Mother _ would disapprove of all this violence, of course. Kliff can almost hear her chattering away in that infuriatingly patronizing way she always did. No doubt she would scold him for feeling little more than the tiniest shred of guilt for assisting in brutal murder so close to home. She would surely have more than a few choice words to say about Kliff running off to join some army without her permission, engaging in the barbaric throes of war when he should be focusing on his studies, training up for a dull occupation solely to line their pockets and let her enjoy a life of comfort in her evening years. Joke’s on her, he thinks. He only regrets that his first taste of adventure hadn’t even allowed for more space between him and the stifling village he’d called home for his entire life.

_ “Kliff!” _

Lukas’ firm shout snaps him to attention. One of them’s not quite dead yet.

Caught up in a contest of strength with another bandit, Lukas doesn’t have time to stop the one he’d knocked aside, the one now just noticing that his path to Kliff is clear.

But Kliff isn’t afraid.

Brilliant flames crackle to life in his palms as Kliff thinks back to that day he couldn’t stop crying. The anger burns searing hot in his chest, quickly outpacing the heat in his hands. His magic flares with a vengeance as Kliff draws back his arm to fling the spell.

This time, death would stand at his side, a solemn ally as witness to the day Kliff took control. The bandit stops dead in his charge, eyes wide. Kliff smirks.

“Now you  _ die." _

The fire obeys him without question.

 

\--  _ Love  _ \--

Every story has an adventure. Her sweetest memories begin with a seat upon her grandmother’s knee, eyes bright and attention undivided as she absorbs the wonderful fantasies of nobles, beasts, commoners alike. _Nana,_ _what kind of lady do you think I’ll be when I grow up?_

Her grandmother smiles at that. It’s a soft smile that speaks generations of kindness.  _ You will live a long life full of happiness,  _ she always says.  _ You’ll settle down with a lovely home and garden, and you’ll marry a nice boy, like your mother and I did. _

But none of the boys in the village are right for Faye. They’re too rowdy, too laid back, too sensitive. They don’t know how to treat a lady. There’s only one nice boy in the village, she decides. And she’s going to marry a nice boy, just like her grandmother wanted.

Alm is brave. Alm is kind. Alm is disciplined and hardworking, but still has time for a smile and a laugh at the end of each tough day of training. He treats her like a friend and an equal, but with a delicate respect that he doesn’t show towards any of the others—it’s just for her. Her heart swells with pride and adoration every time he looks her way.

Suppertime is almost always spent over some new rendition of Alm’s great deeds of the day, his soft hair, his gentle voice. Her grandmother positively beams at the way her eyes light up when she speaks of him, hardly touching her food until Ma and Pa prod her to eat her meat. Night after night, Faye dreams about a knight in shining armor come to sweep her off her feet. Upon imaginary horseback, they ride towards the horizon together, a warm safety washing over them. Sometimes the knight takes off his helm, and Alm’s wonderful, shining face is always behind it.

Seasons come and go. Every so often, when Alm smiles, Faye sees a brittleness at its edges. She notices the way he winces under her touch when she insists on tending to his training bruises. She sees the flashes of anger in his eyes after a heated argument (however far and few between) with Mycen. The chinks in his armor are starting to show, and she is afraid.

Her enthusiasm for suppertime stories fades, and the knight visits her less and less. Soon her dreams become a scene of parting where she pleads with her knight to stay and remove his helm for her one last time—he hesitates, frozen in place as her delicate fingers reach impatiently to do the deed herself—

But then Faye opens her eyes, and the knight is gone.

She knows it’s still Alm, though. It always is. It has to be.

Alm’s voice cuts clearly through the din of combat, barking orders to his scattered friends while fending off every dangerous blade aimed at him. Faye sticks close, like a shadow. She grips her blood-soaked light blade with white-knuckled fists, praying fervently in silence that nothing else would come her way. The bandit who had dared threaten Alm lies stiff on the ground at her feet, unmoving from where she had cut him down. There’s an arrow protruding straight from his leg, embedded deep in his thigh—her eyes linger over each open wound, sticking there like a trapped fly in fresh honey. Blood stains the edges of her dress, speckles of red decorate her boots and braids. 

But it’s alright, she thinks. Alm is safe. Alm will defeat them all flawlessly and easily, just like a fairy tale hero.

“Faye,” Alm’s voice says from somewhere above her, “are you okay?”

Something’s wrong with his tone. It sounds strained, even behind the confidence and concern. She nods in a daze.

Her knight is perfect, gallant, glorious. And she would always be by his side, whether that be beside a hearth or locked in battle. She would take up arms for him. She would protect him. She would kill for him. She would have her happily ever after. After all… what other option is there?

 

\--  _ Family _ \--

Tobin has never given much thought to war.

His brothers and sisters ooh and aah the first time they see Tobin fire an arrow, mouths agape and eyes wide in wonder. They squeal and applaud with glee at every shot that pierces the head, heart, and neck of the straw dummies. They cheer and chant his name like a hero while Tobin laughs along and tells them all to eat their vegetables so they can grow strong and handsome like him someday. (Gray, of course, mocks him for that comment, but only once.)

They cry horribly when he announces his decision to join the Deliverance. The youngest among them wail and cling to his leggings, weighing him down like sandbags. They beg him not to go, but Tobin can’t bear to see another winter of scarce harvests and small rations. He won’t let this chance pass him by when he knows the future seasons will only bring cold and hunger without the funds to support them. So he playfully ruffles their hair and gently reminds them all to behave.

He’ll be safe in the rearguard, he thinks. Taking aim across the field, it’s easy to pretend that he never left the straw dummies or rotting fence posts of Ram behind. Tobin effortlessly nails the bandits’ arms, legs, and torso to slow them down, crippling them just enough to give the others some room to breathe, a moment to recover before they take another one down.

Someone shouts his name, and in a whirlwind of motion Tobin is shoved roughly to the ground, leaving him startled and gasping for air. His heart stops when he finally gulps down a breath and realizes that Gray is standing over him, sword wedged sickeningly deep into his attacker’s shoulder. His bow suddenly feels entirely too flimsy in his hand. The blood in his veins runs cold as he helplessly watches Gray dance with death just inches away, terror chaining him to the spot.

The air feels thick and heavy when the limp body slides off of Gray’s blade, once it’s all over. The stench of blood is suffocating. It’s too close.

Gray pauses for a beat before straightening up. When he turns around to look at Tobin, still frozen to the spot where he’d landed ungracefully on the ground, Tobin thinks he catches the slightest glimpse of something wild and panicked in the way Gray’s eyes dart over him—almost as if he isn’t really seeing what’s right in front of him. He seems distant, unfocused. This isn’t Gray at all. For a second, Tobin forgets to breathe.

But then Gray blinks, cracks a weary grin and slips back into his casual self like nothing’s happened. “You all right, Tobe?” he asks, almost cheerfully. “Lucky for you I was around to save the day  _ and  _ look cool doing it, huh?”

Tobin’s chest constricts painfully at how incredibly  _ normal _ Gray sounds. Intentions war within him. He desperately wants to touch Gray, hug him, punch him,  _ anything _ —just to ground himself, to remind himself that they’re both still alive, that everything is okay. But it hurts just to look at him, all smiles under all the blood (he knows it’s not Gray’s blood, but the sight is enough to send another spike of fear through him). So instead, he wills his lead body to move and pushes himself to his feet. “I’m fine, thanks,” he mumbles, and it comes out sounding a lot harsher than he meant it to.

Shock flickers across Gray’s features before he frowns, his expression souring into something serious. He looks like he’s about to say something else—his hand reaches out towards Tobin, and gods Tobin wants to meet it more than anything, but he finds himself instinctively recoiling out of reach.

“I said I’m  _ fine, _ Gray,” he snaps, trying not to wince at his own tone. He wishes furiously that Gray would stop looking at him like that. It tears at his insides something awful. He nocks another arrow into his bow and turns his gaze back to the field, silently hinting that Gray should do the same.

Oddly, Gray doesn’t protest. His arm drops back down to his side without another word. Tobin feels Gray’s eyes linger on him before he turns away, finally making a half-hearted attempt to wipe the blood off his own face and directing his attention back to the dangers at hand. Tobin’s fingers start to tremble around his weapon once Gray looks away. His teeth clench together at the thought of how defenseless he was, how  _ useless, _ how quickly he’d forgotten that there were other lives at stake besides his own. Important lives.

He’s not sure how much time has passed before the battle’s won. It feels like seconds, hours, and years all at once. Behind his eyelids he can still see the vivid image of the dead bandit, dark blood spattered and smeared across Gray’s body and clothes, the fear he hadn’t quite been able to hide before their eyes met. The smell of death fills Tobin’s lungs and chokes him with every breath—it won’t go away, even long after they leave the battlefield. Tobin takes the first opportunity he has to excuse himself from the group and vomit into the nearest bush once the others are out of sight, bracing himself with weak, shaking arms.

Gray doesn’t try to approach Tobin again once they resume their march for the day. No one does. For the first time, even surrounded by friends, Tobin feels completely and utterly alone.

**Author's Note:**

> A big thank you to @amouisrafel on tumblr for brainstorming with me (and for listening to me whine about Faye's poor characterization lol). You can find me @code-rage on Tumblr and @fushimington on Twitter (I'm in graybin hell, pls send help)


End file.
